Best Laid Plans
by Chewing Gum
Summary: 221b Challenge. 50 - Welcome to the world, Sherlock Holmes. 51 - Siamese cats don't have wonderful reputations with children, but there's a first time for everything. 52 - There is nothing to fear but fear itself. And giant magnetic tubes.
1. Bail

The night was extraordinarily still. The water was like deep glass. There were crickets and frogs peeping and somewhere in the distance was a night bird making its call. If one listened closely enough, one might even hear the flutter of bats as they dove for their insect prey.

John Watson was not so peaceful as the night. He was tired and hungry, his shoulder ached, and his feet were damp. "Holmes..." he began, hoping to make clear that he was not at all pleased with the current situation.

"There's hardly anything I can do about it, Watson," countered Holmes, every bit as testy as his friend and as edgy as a trodden upon polecat.

"We should have listened to Inspector Lestrade." He kept one hand on his oar but ceased the paddling in order to massage the shoulder, its muscles making their protest with pangs of white hot pain.

His reply was predictable. "Lestrade is an idiot. I was not about to stand by and let a golden opportunity slip through my fingers."

"So you jumped in a rowboat and dragged me with you and let an unfeasible opportunity slip through your fingers."

"When you put it that way..." He stopped when a small geyser of water sprouted up through the bottom of the boat.

"What now, Holmes?"

"... Bail."


	2. Best

London was a beehive of activity, the peak of humanity, and the absolute best place to play the deduction game in the opinion of both brothers.

Mycroft, more traveled at fifteen, would confirm that their country home had too few visitors, in France everyone wore their professions like mantles, and Italy contained too many tourists to be interesting.

"A baker," Sherlock proclaimed of the specimen observed from their hotel window. "Plump from sampling, burns on his fingers from ovens, and ruddy cheeks from the heat he is exposed to. He's not overly successful, however... Ratty clothes."

"Wrong..." sighed Mycroft, his eyes keener from looking harder rather than moving. "You have a better seat than I, you should see that the burns are far too small to be from an oven. You have the heat part down, but what about those tiny nicks on his face? He is a key duplicator; his face is ruddy and scarred from the sparks that come off his craft. His delicate hands were a bigger hint, much too narrow to carry trays of bread, and there's no yellow stain of yeast on him."

"Bull!" The younger brother leaned out dangerously far for a better look. "I _know_ that's bull!"

Mycroft relented. If tumbling out a window was the prize, he would let his brother be best.


	3. Bullet

Irene Norton could not withhold a look of distaste as she threaded her way around the haphazardly arranged textbooks and journals all over the floor. "I hope this is not an inconvenient time, Mr. Holmes…"

"No more inconvenient than any other time, I suppose," replied the detective, propped on the sofa like a nervous cat, a cigarette dangling dangerously. "I have a case, but it is routine. I could do with another."

"Yes…" She could think of nothing else to say. With a ladylike delicacy she removed a teetering stack of paper from one of the chairs so that she could seat herself. "I have no specific business, Mr. Holmes. I merely wished to see you. It has been a while."

His eyebrow arched almost mockingly. "Mrs. Norton. I believed you to be above such feminine rituals."

"Yes, well…" She had expected awkwardness, but… "We have a daughter now."

"I read." This was his contribution to the conversation before diving back into notes.

"Godfrey thinks she'll take after me, but it's hard to tell at the age where they're mostly spitting up and sleeping…" She realized the whole matter was a lost cause, however. She bid a quick goodbye that she doubted was heard and showed herself out, feeling that in the case of Sherlock Holmes, she had dodged a bullet.


	4. Beds

The weather was terrible; it looked like someone above the clouds was tearing up cotton and letting the pieces freefall, coating the entire city and turning the streets into paths of certain death.

There was a row over the table about it, but in the end Holmes and Watson refused to let Mycroft go home in such weather. Besides, Holmes had reasoned, even if he did make it home he could not return the next day to wrap up the case.

Mycroft finally relented, not relishing walking home in the slush anyway (no hansom would go out in such weather, surely), but he indicated there was the matter of sleeping accommodations. The obvious solution would be for Holmes to relinquish his bed and sleep on the sofa, but their couch was currently covered in papers that could not be mussed.

Watson had suggested the brothers sleep together, as brothers often did.

Holmes had snorted, stating that they had on occasion and Mycroft took up the majority of the mattress and the covers. No, he would commandeer half of his friend's bed.

Shortly after they had settled, Mycroft heard the opening of the door. In silence, Watson entered and bedded next to him with only two words; Holmes kicks.

Mycroft closed his eyes, hoping that was the last round of musical beds.


	5. Bizarre

Mrs. Hudson had not heard the elder brother leave the night before and she hoped he had not in that weather; there had been too many people killed in or by carriages on icy streets.

Heading up the stairs, empty laundry basket on her hip, she knew six-thirty was early to be up there, especially when they had been up so late, but she doubted any of them would wake if she gathered up a few articles to top off her load. She despised wasting water and powder on a lacking load.

The detective was the most likely to have dirty clothes lying about, based on her experience, and so it was his door she tentatively pushed open first, expecting to see either one or both Holmeses.

Instead, the auditor and the doctor seemed to have reached an unconscious compromise with the blankets and lay stilly save for the rising and falling of chests even as winter daylight began to seep through the curtains. By constraints of the bed, the two were fairly close, Watson's head very nearly tucked in the crook of Mycroft's neck due to cataleptic twisting in an attempt to gain access to the sole pillow. Both wore their rumpled clothing from the night before.

The landlady gathered the clothing and left. She had seen things more bizarre.


	6. Burnese

Watson could not restrain a chuckle and a warm-hearted smile. "Don't look so dour, old friend. You are quite a popular man in London. Every public figure has his admirers."

"That kind of admiring I don't need," he shot back, shifting his next back and forth in a way that may have resembled Moriarty had it been less stiff. "Nor does my spine need it. There are times when I wished you'd never published that drivel Watson."

They'd had that talk many times before and it always came 'round the same way; without the stories, Watson would still rely on his medical practise for his sole income and therefore would have far less time to trail after Holmes as he solved mystery after mystery. Holmes learned he could put up with the tripe and all that came with it if it kept his Boswell at his side, but instances like this pushed limits.

"I find it charming," the doctor put in. "He said he read her the stories each and every night and that she had her favourites..."

"You would think something like that was endearing. Rather, I find it bordering disturbing." Holmes had not been amused when he had been strolling one moment and then had been on the ground being adored by one hundred forty pounds of purebred Burnese.


	7. Blind

_AN: Inspired by one of KCS's drabbles..._

Geometry was his brother's favourite subject, and so he waited until Mycroft had fetched their father's good brass instruments to take to his room before jumping into action. Dignified older brother was going to be sorry he had ever told mother who had (accidentally!) killed all the fish in the pond.

He too borrowed something of their father's; one of the stiff pillows from his side of the bed. They did wonders for his sore neck. Sherlock was more occupied with giving his brother one.

He crept down the hallway. He knew the maid had oiled all the doors that day and the door to his brother's realm slid open without so much as a sound.

The ample young man seated with his back to the door was too preoccupied with cosines to pay attention to the world around him, and he was none the wiser to the impending attack.

Or so his brother thought, in any case.

Sherlock leapt into the air, ready to bludgeon his venerable brother to hell and back. At the same time, Mycroft lifted the flexible brass ruler to give Sherlock a moderate swat.

Both failed.

Mycroft felt ill and cried for the first time in six years. The doctor told Sherlock he was lucky the eye the ruler had stricken had not been rendered blind.


	8. Ball

__

AN: The following is a missing scene from the museum in "What Words Fail Of".

The tiny girl examined the globe, frowned, and then looked back up to me with a disbelieving expression, as if I were trying to pull the wool over her eyes and she simply wasn't having any.

"I would not lie to you, Eve." I was trying to retain laughter. "The world really is round like that."

Another glance back to the globe and then to the floor beneath our feet, which was most certainly flat. She looked back up to me, placing her good hand firmly on her hip.

"I know it _seems_ flat, but that's because the world is so massive, the curve is so slight we can't notice it in normal places. We're held on by the gravity caused by the earth's rotation; gravity makes things fall down, so it keeps us planted here."

The look of a sceptic.

"I'm not the best person to explain it," I admitted. "Perhaps that's something you can ask Mycroft."

Her expression stated she intended to do just that. With a final, almost accepting glance, she took my hand once more and led me towards something new.

How extraordinary, I could not help but note, for a child, upon learning the seemingly impossible, was able to put aside for the moment the fact that the entire world lay balanced on one huge ball.


	9. Bottles

I yawned, plodding into the dining room, anticipating one of Mrs. Hudson's heavenly breakfasts. Our last case had ended the day before, so I expected to be joined by Holmes.

Holmes, however, was kneeling on the window seat like an overgrown child looking quite thoroughly amused.

"Holmes…?" I was almost afraid to ask, but living with him was enough to whet the most passive man's curiosity. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Watching," was his near insolent reply. He glanced over his boney shoulder, grinning like an unruly schoolboy nicking sweets from the school kitchen while the cook was out with her secret lover.

It was then that I heard a meow. Then another. Then an entire chorus of feline voices.

I made my way to the window, resisting the urge to rub my eyes in case traces of sleep there were impairing my vision.

"Holmes…" I began. My teeth would have been clenched had my jaw not been so close to dropping.

"I assure you I had nothing to do with this, Watson. In fact, I warned our milkman myself that his wheels were getting a bit worn down. He apparently ignored me."

A dangerous thing, to ignore Sherlock Holmes. Outside our window was a good two dozen cats, perhaps more, lapping at the spilled milk from the shattered bottles.


	10. Box

Holmes's appetite had three phases; there were the phase where he simply would not eat anything that was not shoved down his throat by me or Mrs. Hudson, there was the phase where he would shovel anything into his mouth and not taste it, and there was the rare phase that came after the two previous ones where he was extremely picky about what he ate.

The same comfort food always showed up in the flat during that time. It was not my trouble until Holmes proved himself as inflexible as his brother in some matters.

"It's the principal of the thing, Watson!" His pipe emitted puffs. "Simply being _told_ is no fun!"

"I suspect it is for people with allergies, Holmes." I offered. I knew I could not quell his ranting but I could try. "You could simply not look at the insert."

"But they changed the arrangement all around! It's the best brand, and it's been the same way since I was a boy… Why go and change it _now_?"

"You could look at the…"

"I just said that that was no _fun_! It's comparable to cheating! It wastes an entire box, maybe two, doing guess and check!"

I sighed, silencing myself for my own sanity. I could not believe Holmes was so worked up over a chocolate box.


	11. Bale

"You know," Holmes commented to me as we lay in wait for yet another criminal, though this one in the middle of the day rather than in the dead of night. "I think I may be allergic to hay."

"What do you mean by that?" I replied, not able to help a small frown considering that it was his suggestion that we bury ourselves in the straw for camouflage. "As in hay fever?"

"I believe I am prone to develop a rash when I am in close contact with hay too long."

"Odd you should be discovering that now, Holmes. Allergies usually display themselves earlier on in life. Are you telling me that you have never been in contact with hay until now?"

"Mycroft and I were city boys, Watson. We no more handled hay than we did tigers. Living in London and not riding horseback, how would I ever come this close to it?"

I supposed he had a point. I had grown up in the country where one sometimes went to dinner with more hay than hair on ones head. "Is it a bad rash, Holmes?"

He pulled his sleeve up to his elbow, revealing a forearm that was burning poppy red with irritation. "Is this bad, do you suppose?" he questioned, other arm still leaning against a bale.


	12. Baths

__

AN: A missing scene from "What Words Fail Of" from the much-requested point of view of Eve.

Before, baths were water, ice cold or dirty (or both), thrown at me and what I could scrub off myself. Now they were fun; the taps had to be just right, the soap smelled good, and the water was clean and warmer than anything from Before.

Mycroft did not find them as much fun as I did. I suppose it was my fault, but I could not help myself. Also, he looked quite funny when he was angry.

"Eve, hold still!" he grunted, attempting to wipe the soot from my face with a washcloth. The water had turned to grey, and each time the dirty water splashed his shirt he grumbled.

I was too busy looking at the bottle sitting on the bath shelf before me. It had a picture of some sort of flower on it, and was a pretty purple colour. Mycroft had called it shampoo and said a scent would be needed to get the smell of smoke from my hair.

Master had beaten me many times for my curiosity. I knew Mycroft would not, and so I reached out to lift the bottle. It was heavy. It fell into the water with a large splash.

I gave a small grin towards Mycroft, who was now soaked from his hair to his waist.

I decided I enjoyed baths.


	13. Bottlefeeding

__

AN: A missing scene from "Perpetual Anticipation". Also, I count hyphenated words as one word, as my spellchecker does.

Holmes slid into the chair opposite his brother in the café, which had been one of their meeting places since Holmes's school days. He raised an eye at the book jacket on the tome Mycroft was buried in. "Why did you switch the jacket? What exactly are you reading, brother mine, that you cannot let the public see? Nothing of official business, obviously, for you to not take more care with it."

"Sharp eye," murmured the portly man, his own eyes staying on the text so he would not have to admit carelessness. He had described the book he had stolen the jacket from as bland and repetitive to his brother three years ago, so it would hardly merit a second reading.

"I know." He put his elbows on the table, letting his chin rest in the cradle his hands made. "So, what is it? I can't see from here, and there's nothing to deduce the subject from."

Mycroft sighed, setting it down, allowing the print to be visible.

Holmes tried unsuccessfully to rein in laughter.

His fleshy face blushed. "How _else_ am I to learn it?"

"_Must_ you learn it?"

"I plan to be able to feed my own child. I can hardly go about it the natural way!"

Holmes wondered how a person could fill a book on bottle-feeding.


	14. Basil

_AN: What can I say? I'm a slave to trends._

Basil had taken to popping in and out of our part of the flat for some time now. Holmes was still not entirely sure each incident was not a separate hallucination, but the little fellow had come to amuse me. His companion we had seen more than once as well, and another doctor, albeit a furry one, made for good conversation.

We saw a different face on our mantle one day, however, Basil reluctantly beside her.

"I wanted to see if he was telling the truth about intelligent humans," the snow-white creature, obviously pet shop stock rather than wild like our two other friends, said in a very quiet but noble manner.

"He was," I could not help but smile. "Pleased to meet you Miss…"

"Missus," she corrected gently. "Rosemary."

"Mrs. Rosemary. Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes grunted, barely looking over his paper. "You've never mentioned a lady companion before, Basil. Dr. Dawson's?"

The mouse shook his tiny head, sighing. "My sister-in-law. And let me tell you, I was not consulted on the matter!"

Rosemary gave a tiny flick of her tail, glaring at him. "He never likes to mention his brother; he hates being defeated at anything."

"He and Mr. Holmes have much in common," I noted, ignore Holmes's glare and the snicker that came from Basil.


	15. Boy

Mycroft did everything at his own pace, including growing. Although his full height was impressive, he did not reach it until the age of twenty.

His brother did things differently, for his growth spurt began the same year his brother's ended, and by summer he had surpassed their mother (no slight feat; she was a lofty woman).

"I've been driving the school tailor insane," smirked Sherlock as he exited the carriage outside the Oxfordshire manor, his father following after him. "I might just be taller than Mycroft at this rate."

"A quick growth can hurt," Father warned, casting an eye towards him. Sherlock was always in such a hurry that he never saw the other side of things. "It takes a while to get used to your height."

The boy, fourteen and believing himself immortal until at least twenty-five, raised a rather sarcastic brow. "Get used to it? It's my own body, Father, not a pair of shoes. What is there to get used to?"

There was usually an ornate table in the middle of the entryway, but it was being refurbished. Sherlock walked directly into the huge metal chandelier, the force of which landed him on his tailbone. He blinked blearily, seeing his father's face above him.

Holmes Senior was smiling. "Welcome to the rest of your life, my boy."


	16. Bread

_AN: Based on a discussion I had with a friend on how the names of the Holmes brothers sounded Yiddish in origin (although they're old English). Also, I'm on a past kick._

It was not that Mycroft hated being Jewish; it was the fact that everyone at his school hated that he was Jewish. He always came home with too many bruises for his liking, and at fourteen, he was simply too young to be intimidating.

There was also this barbaric fasting. He understood the importance of Passover, of thanksgiving that the Hebrews had been spared God's wrath on the Egyptians, and he could live without yeast for a week, but the Fast of the Firstborn was an entirely different matter.

Sunrise to sunset without sustenance was something best left to Catholics, in his opinion. He had risen earlier than usual to eat breakfast, but that felt like years ago now.

His younger brother was not helping.

"Distracting yourself?" Sherlock questioned, nibbling at an apple as he watched his sibling do the work he was missing because of the holiday. "I suspect the hunger pains are quite set in now. This fresh fruit is to die for, Mycroft."

Mycroft gritted his teeth. Passover was a time of family, of loving one's relatives, but at the moment he wished a plague upon the boy. "_Go_."

The anger on his face was victory enough. "Oh, of course, Mycroft." He smirked a final time, extracting a growl with "Perhaps I'll get some of Auntie's unleavened bread…"


	17. Body

A strained grunt. "Doctor, I'm not ready for the handshake and the gold watch quite yet, but I am getting too old for this foolishness."

"Oh, Inspector, he can't weigh more than one forty. One fifty-five tops. Lift with your knees or else you'll be flat on your back tomorrow."

"I have a feeling I will be any way I lift. Can we set him down for such a moment?" The doctor obliged, and they lowered the still form to the ground. Lestrade clutched at his lower back, where that prophetic feeling was gathering. "I say again, too old for this foolishness. If it were anyone else but Holmes…"

"But it is, and therefore you are. Come, Lestrade, we need to get him moved before day breaks, so pull up your bootstraps."

The inspector groaned, bracing his weary muscles once more and straining on the count of three. "Holmes owes me dearly for this, do let him know that, would you?"

Watson could not help but grin, as he knew the inspector was all too glad to assist. "I will, Inspector. You're sure this will do it?"

With a mighty heave, they swung the corpse of the ruffian into the Thames, no doubt startling several fish half to death. "Holmes will get off, doctor. It's a weak case with no body."


	18. Entirely Bad

_AN: A missing scene from Chapter 17 of "What Words Fail Of" from the pov of Trevor._

Mr. Holmes isn't a cruel man, but nor is he easy to work for. You see, his work consumes him so that he simply does not have the time for niceties when there are lives on the line. Most don't understand this and call him an insufferable misanthrope.

I, on the other hand, do what I can to help him, and not only because he can get rather frightening at times.

When Hyde escaped, I was worried for both my employer and his little charge. Who knows what such a man would do to get what he wanted? On my way home that evening, I decided to check in on my employer, thinking that perhaps if he was nervous, I could be of some comfort.

I should have known that Mycroft Holmes rarely became nervous.

When I knocked and there was no answer, I let myself in with my copy of his key. I called out softly. Still, no answer. Worry built inside me, and I went to his bedroom, pushing the door open.

There I found the tiny lady curled into a ball, head resting on Mr. Holmes's arm, looking entirely content next to his huge, intimidating form.

I smiled as I closed the door. I have a theory that anyone who cares for a child cannot be entirely bad.


	19. Beheading

"Not the most pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon, all in all," commented Gregson, sketching out the scene roughly in his notebook.

"Oh, I don't know," Holmes countered, folding his arms as he surveyed the area. "I can think of worse things."

Watson arched an eyebrow, quite obviously doubtful. "Such as?"

"I imagine being forced to stand on top of a factory smokestack while the factory in question was operating would be rather horrible. A wonderful view, but not at all worth the congestion."

Gregson gave a passive shrug. "True. Walking across hot coals would be more unpleasant than this."

"Ah, yes. And Watson, would you honestly rather be taking a man's tonsils out instead of investigating at this moment?"

He considered this. "It would be a close call, Holmes."

"Truly?"

"I suppose I would rather be here than taking out an appendix, however, if the full truth must be known."

"I would much rather be doing my duty than be at my sister-in-law's house for lunch," snorted the inspector with a devilish grin. "She makes the most horrible soup you can think of."

"You see?" The detective was contented, and it was plain to see on his sharp face. "We have just named four things less enjoyable that could occupy a Sunday afternoon than the investigation of a beheading."


	20. Blank

_AN: Prequel to Chapter 17 of "Best Laid Plans", "Body"._

"Holmes, could you please explain this to me?" panted Watson, sprinting to keep up with my long strides. "Why must we dart across London to capture Dillon at this very moment?"

I grinned, heart pumping with the thrill of the chase. "All the evidence I've gathered against him is either circumstantial or was burnt in that convenient fire at Scotland Yard. We need his confession to close the case."

The two of us all but burst through the door of the seedy office, both of our pistols drawn. I immediately trained mine on the surprised man sitting at the desk.

"It's over, Dillon!" I snarled, triumphant at last. "You'll finally be brought to justice for the murder of those four men! Confess now, and I will not be forced to shoot." As I spoke, my finger tightened ever so slightly. Not a risk I would normally take, but I had loaded my gun with blanks.

"Alright…" he seemed to relent. "I'll…" With that, he flung himself at me.

I pulled the trigger, meaning to startle him.

Watson, the romantic fool he is, often paints me as a man who is never wrong. I will admit that even I make mistakes, however. This was one. What dropped him to the floor, dead as a stone, was most certainly not a blank.


	21. Blend

"What in the name of the Everlasting Cat are _you_?"

Basil gave a jump, his tail wrapping around himself instinctively. When he turned, he found himself looking into the matching blue eyes. "Er…" he stammered out, backing up against the wall. When Mr. Holmes had mentioned his brother had some papers that could help his case, he had not mentioned a cat.

Perhaps that had been on purpose…

"I suppose," the little detective managed. "I'm a mouse."

"_Oh_." His voice was not feminine, and yet not at all masculine, and the mouse realized that the cat was a eunuch rather than a tom. "I suppose I'm supposed to catch you, aren't I? I don't particularly _want _to, mind. I've never had mouse, but I imagine salmon tastes much better."

"You don't have to catch me!" Basil was quick to assure him. "I'm merely dropping in, checking on a few things of Mr. Holmes's. His brother sent me.

Marco Polo resisted a sneeze, remembering the strong scent of tobacco on the brother. "Second door on the right down this hall; he's not in. Stay clear of the third door. That's Mistress's parlor; I don't imagine she likes _mice_ very much."

"Much thanks, my dear fellow." Basil felt rather good of himself as he scampered down the hall. Felines and rodents could blend!


	22. Bunny

__

AN: Yet another missing scene from "Words".

After the incident with Hyde in the park, I thought it would be best to come prepared to the next stakeout, and therefore had various medical items tucked in my pockets. Luckily for Mycroft Holmes, they included alcohol, tweezers, thread, and a needle. If the bullet wounds were not stitched up soon... Well. Needless to say, there was no time for a more sterile setting.

Nor was their time to shoo Eve away (that, and I did not want her out of my sight after what that maniac Jackyl had done to her). She sat beside her largest protector, retrieved rabbit in her lap, wrapped around Mycroft's uninjured arm. Tears were running down her face like rain.

I used a pair of medical scissors to cut through the jacket and shirt surrounding the wound. "Eve..." I sighed, not quite sure what to say now that it was almost over. "He's going to be alright. I promise."

There was that sceptical look of hers as she gazed at the bloody holes left by the bullets. She then looked back to me.

"I know, but I'm going to mend him up, alright?"

Eve considered this and then held up her rabbit by the floppy ear that I had stitched up.

Despite the situation, how could I help but smile? "Yes. Just like Bunny."


	23. Brute

__

AN: As someone who contracted mono through sharing a bottle, this chapter is close to me. If you're reading this, Ginger, I'm looking at you!

Mycroft Holmes was in the seventh circle of Hell for two reasons.

The first was physical. At fifteen, he was not sure he had ever felt worse for so long. He had been mildly feverish for days, his throat burnt so badly he could not swallow without biting his lip, and although he was no stranger to sloth, he felt so tired in both his muscles and his mind that lying down and never getting up seemed to be an attractive option.

The second was emotional. It was fifteen minutes from the train station to the estate, and in that time he would have to explain how he had contracted infectious mononucleosis, or the kissing disease, at a boy's school.

His roommate had snuck to the girl's school half a kilometre down the road, gotten it from some girl who obviously longed for lips other than his, and then had been boorish enough to swig Mycroft's cough syrup straight from the bottle. The next time he himself had used it, the next morning his throat was redder than a sunset.

They were more apt to believe other things.

He should have known Sherlock would have insisted on coming. His brother loved a good excuse.

Mycroft had a feeling he should not start said excuse with "Well, Father, my roommate's a brute..."


	24. Back

__

AN: With Pompey's permission, another drabble concerning the curious incident of the Baker Street cats.

"It _itches_!"

"So you've said," grumbled Watson, attempting to hold the lithe black creature still enough to part a section of his fur. Blast it all, he was a doctor, not a veterinarian! "You don't seem to have any insects crawling about... Likely just dry skin, Holmes. I've heard some cats are very prone to it."

"Well, what am I supposed to _do_ about it?" Holmes bemoaned, scratching his ear with a hind paw out of instinct, ignoring the snickering ginger tom perched on the mantle out of principle.

"I'll run you a bath with baking soda, I suppose. That's what you do for the itching associated with chicken pox."

Holmes was inconsolable, winding around Watson's legs as he walked in an effort to scratch more area than he could reach. This caused the doctor to be more concerned with not tripping over him than where he was going.

Mycroft had been dozing on the rug, curled into a ball with his tail unfurled. When Watson's shoe came down upon it, he let forth an unholy yelp and darted out from under the man so fast it send him tumbling to the floor.

Moriarty raised a whiskered brow. "I didn't expect him to be capable of such speed."

Mycroft began to take special care to carry his tail over his back.


	25. Black

_AN: A missing scene from "Perpetual Anticipation"._

"You were born with blond hair?" Ann Marie could not help but giggle out, despite the fact that she was being primmer than she usually was in front of the revered Mrs. Violet Holmes.

Holmes was beginning to tinge scarlet, and he murmured something inane.

"For the first five years of his life, he was almost as blonde as you are now," his mother stated on his behalf. "Which is why we named him Sherlock; it means 'golden hair', or something along those lines. Their father picked out their names, he was far better with those tasks than I. It began to darken eventually, however, and it was as black as Mycroft's and Sherrinford's by the time he went to boarding school."

"You're lucky Father's mother had been blonde," put in the elder brother, resisting a snicker. "Or else there may well have been a scandal."

"As if I would have cared."

Ann Marie rose to help the maid clear the table for tea and dessert. "You've teased me about my hair colour being connected to my intellect so often, Sherlock, and you were once a blond?"

"I believe the key element in that sentence is the past tense. Now that Mycroft's going grey, I actually have the darker hair." Holmes hoped, for his sake, his nephew's hair would be black.


	26. Bark

_AN: More Basil and Marco Polo because it's cute. _

"How…" Pant. "In the world…" Pant. "Did you…" Pant. "Talk me into this!" Pant.

Marco Polo was many things. He was a Siamese for one, a breed to be pampered and adored (which he was). He had a remarkably wonderful voice, being a castrato. He was also a member of high feline society; he and Bustopher Jones, the undisputable toast of the town, were on a single name basis.

He was most certainly _not_ a mount for a mad detecting mouse.

"I hardly predicted this, old chap!" Basil protested although he sounded rather excited as he held on for his life to the fine Italian leather collar. He glanced over his shoulder. "Oh my… They're gaining on us! Can't you pick up the pace?"

"Says the one not doing the running," Marco Polo grumbled to himself, noting the neighbourhood. At least he had a plan. With one long jump, he cleared a picket fence, scrambling to the backyard.

The huge, snarling tom that had been chasing them did the same, following them. He was deterred, however, when a massive German Sheppard came tearing from the doghouse, deep growls sending it scurrying away like a bat out of Hell.

Marco Polo, still panting, looked up at the dog affectionately. "Thanks, Duchess."

The dog, owned by one Michael Abbot, gave a happy bark.


	27. Bailiwick

Sherlock Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Your exams are rapidly approaching, your high school career is coming to an end, you're likely going to be spending your last responsibility-free summer between washing dishes and writing some awful harlequin… So why on earth are you grinning like a loon?"

The brunette placed the cardboard box on the bed, plucking a tack from her corkboard to split the packing tape. "Say all you want, Holmes. You can't get me down right now." Face lit with joy, humming happily, she set to digging through the numerous instruction manuals.

His brow arched further; he knew a challenge when he heard one. "You still haven't finished the bonus story for your little advice column this week."

"It's halfway done."

"You haven't gotten the next chapter of What Words Fail Of."

"So after I finish the bonus, I'm free for the next of the night."

Feeling somewhat defeated now, the detective regarded the author with the gaze one might bestow upon a particularly troublesome resident of an insane asylum. "You're quite happy."

"I'm _damn _happy." With a sigh of utter satisfaction, she lifted the sleek black laptop from its foam holdings, cradling it against her body.

"It's just a machine."

"Hush! I shall name her Sophia…"

Holmes rolled his eyes. Women were most certainly out of his bailiwick.


	28. Baby

Seven wide years divided the Holmes siblings; when Mycroft was ten and discovering the wonders of the various applications of calculus, Sherlock was three and discovering the joy of chewing on things.

The latest thing that had fallen victim to his teeth was an oak ruler, one Mycroft happened to be fond of, it being the perfect width to be sturdy and yet not so bulky that it covered the majority of the paper. Now it was refused to a stub and scattered damp shavings.

Disgusting.

There were times when Mycroft doubted the boy's paternity, both parents had dark hair and as of now the boy's was a curly wheat colour, and yet those grey eyes were undeniable.

He had been put in charge of looking after him while his parents worked with tax season approaching. A chance for the two to bond, they likely had agreed, and Sherlock was loved… But the chewing had to stop.

Mycroft, clever boy that he was, found a solution. An overturned laundry basket on top of a blanket made a wonderful, reasonably comfortable cage

His parents, upon finding the boy not an hour later, were livid.

Elder brother did not see the fuss. "If he wanted out, he would have cried. Besides, I don't recall ever being consulted on the matter of a baby."


	29. Bonny

"… and the Scotsman says… He says 'I don't know where you've been, laddie, but it looked like ye won first prize!'"

Laughter erupted from around the table. Watson wished that he could crawl into his empty glass of brandy. He refused any offer of a refill; if he became drunk, he would hit the table's joker upside the head with the centerpiece.

The discussion had been the origins of the people attending the literary conference. There was a lady novelist from India, and a sharp looking professor from Ireland, and yet it seemed that the cad from Massachusetts only knew jokes about those originally from Scotland.

Watson was tempted to call him a witch and see what resulted, but he believed it to be in poor taste, all events considered.

"Alright, alright, that wasn't even my best one. Now, why do you suppose Scotsmen wear kilts…?"

The Indian woman, the only other guest not gripping her sides, gave Watson a sympathetic look. "I'm sure he'll run out of them sooner or later, Doctor."

The doctor was not so sure.

His temper was not helped by Holmes coming to check up. He was rarely proud, but having an entirely captive audience was appealing. "You were right to convince me to come! How do you fair, old chap?"

Watson growled. "Just bonny."


	30. Buckled

_AN: A continuation of the last chapter. Be warned now, there's a rather foul cuss word. Scots do have rather fiery tempers…_

"… and the son-in-law says 'Nay! We calls him Exorcist because whenever he comes, the spirits disappear!"

More laughter.

Watson's ears turned a bit redder. He was not a man of quick temper, not by any means, but it seemed that the more the American drank the more jokes he seemed to remember. Couldn't he break the streak with a nice Irish joke? A Brit joke, even. Anything.

"Alright now, so this Scotsman has just bought a bottle of fine Scotch, of course, and on his way home…"

"No!" His voice surprised even him as the doctor jumped up out of his chair. "No, that is quite enough! Why are the United States and yogurt different? Yogurt has an active culture! You insist on calling a sport where one only uses ones feet a minority of the time football, and everyone knows it's simply rugby for those afraid of breaking something! American draft is like making love in a canoe because it's fucking close to water! You don't understand British humour because you believe irony is a cheaper alternative to silvery, and for the record, humour has a 'u' in it!"

The room was silent. Only the lanky detective risked a chuckle.

Watson glared at Holmes, stormed out of the room, and slammed the door so hard the frame nearly buckled.


	31. Bordelaise

Marco Polo really was getting quite sick of that mouse. At first, his presence had been rather novel, and he had to admit that he was often ample amusement, but there was a time and a place, and the time was not when he was having a bath.

"I thought cats disliked water," noted Basil with an amused smirk, noting the subtle scent of lavender.

"Cold water I despise, but everyone needs to bathe," the Siamese yawned, stretching out in the shallow water lining the tub, batting a bubble. Mistress had gone to fetch a towel, and if the little nuisance was not gone by the time she came back, he would have to go through the ceremony of trying to catch him. Most unpleasant. "What do you want, Basil?"

"I have a very important job for you."

"And I have a very important party tonight with some very important cats, which I am not missing for a _mouse_." It was hard to be accepted among the upper ranks as a foreign breed; it was really only Bustopher Jones vouching for him that ensured his popularity.

"I know. There is a certain cat I need you to keep an eye out for."

He repressed a groan. He doubted mice tasted good, but perhaps with eggplant, green onion and a little bordelaise…


	32. Bawling

_AN: A scene following the latest chapter of PA._

Marco Polo had been napping in his whicker basket in the parlour when the sound of something falling woke him up. Stretching out and yawning, he listened for the forthcoming scuffles of the mistress gathering whatever had been dropped.

Nothing.

Pointed ears perked in concern. He slunk from the room, padding into the sitting room, the origin of the sound.

The Siamese froze when he saw the woman lying in a heap. She entirely still save for the rapid, almost frantic, heaving of her chest. He darted to her side, licking her pale face in an attempt to rouse her but failing.

"Oh, mistress…!" he moaned, butting her arm with his head. He let out a loud yowl even through he knew that the master was off somewhere (he should have been home, selfish creature!) and the maid was not in today. "No, no, no…"

Marco Polo cried out again, curling tightly against her fallen form, not knowing what else to do. He could hardly help her; he lacked both opposable thumbs and sway over humans. If he went to the neighbours, they would murmur about the disturbance but would be too polite, curse them, to go give Mrs. Holmes a piece of their mind.

Most assumed animals had no emotions, but one would swear that the Siamese was almost bawling.


	33. Brain

Mycroft frowned slightly at the girl's writing. "You're coming along wonderfully with language, Eve, but can't you manage to make the letters a little bit neater?"

She scowled furiously, making a lopsided A with all her concentration to show that it was beyond her power to straighten it.

"Perhaps she suffered head trauma at some point," murmured Watson, not wishing to state outright that the girl might have been damaged permanently. "It might have affected some of her control."

"Odd that her hands never shake and her balance is fine," Holmes remarked. Despite his input, he could offer no explanation for the messiness. Perhaps she was simply doomed to horrible handwriting (another trait the two would share, but even his printing was even).

The elder Holmes was silent, but then gave a slight groan. "Of course…!" he exclaimed.

"Of course what?"

"Eve, use your left hand and write something. Anything."

She obeyed, printing out her full name. She was as surprised as the rest when it came out in neat, even letters.

"She's left-handed," sighed Mycroft, pinching the bridge of her nose. "She's been mimicking our writing, and we're all right-handed, and when she first started writing her left arm was in a sling."

Holmes laughed outright, thinking that awkwardness with most scissors was a good trade for a damaged brain.


	34. Buddies

Holmes snatched the served sleeve out of the Irregular's hands. "Excellent, Alfie!"

The boy grinned at the coins pressed upon him.

"Come, Watson, I need your note taking! After I run a few tests on this, we ought to be able to pin that suspect once and for all!"

I had been assisting Eve with her writing practice. "Holmes, I'm a bit busy. I can hardly leave her unsupervised in this place; God only knows what she'd find her way into unoccupied."

The tiny girl gave an affronted look.

"Can you honestly say you wouldn't do all you could to get into a locked cabinet?"

The look melted into sheepish admittance. Again, she reminded me of my friend far too much.

"Who says she is unoccupied? She has her writing and…" He glanced towards the Irregular, a grin coming upon him. "And Mycroft does insist she needs interaction with those closer to her age. What do you say, you two? You could each gain a playmate."

The girl in the lacey dress and the boy in the patched clothes regarded each other silently. Alfie then stuck out his tongue, which caused Eve to make a rather rude gesture. Before I could blink, they were both on the floor trying to throttle each other.

"Holmes…!"

"They're just playing, Watson. They're regular buddies."


	35. Banister

Pain. Not the pain I had been living through recently, but not the sensation when that wretched bullet had first torn through my flesh. It was somewhere in between, and not at all pleasant.

"Are you wake, doctor?" questioned a voice, my recent fellow lodger. He had been smoking that tobacco of his, but he was not lit at the moment.

I murmured an affirmative response, not trusting my speech any more than my ability to move my neck. "What...?"

"You took a fall down the stairs, I'm afraid. You must have fainted. I often forget you are a recovering man. Your weak leg no doubt complicated matters. You tried to grab the banister; it was weak and gave way. I was fetched by Mrs. Hudson, and we carried you to her settee. You gave her quite a scare, old man."

Venturing from my sightless homeostasis, I cracked open a single lid. Judging by the tight, pulled expression on his sharp face, our poor landlady was not the only one I had worried.

He apparently deduced my thoughts from the slightest expression. "Oh, she would not admit as much more than I, my good doctor. We were both quite shaken, but while I vocally fretted for your condition, the good lady merely wondered what it would cost to replace the banister."


	36. Boot

_AN: KCS found inspiration in one of my chapters, I found it in one of hers. And the end word is the same as well, though unintentionally…_

I looked up from the medical work I was sloughing through. "Holmes…? Has Eve been a touch too quiet lately?"

My friend did not even tear himself from his newspaper clippings. "I've always found her rather quiet. Almost… incapable of speech, to turn a phrase…"

I rose, ignoring his unveiled sarcasm and heading towards the landing where I had last seen the girl. She had been playing with her rabbit and the new china doll Mycroft had bought for her (and he being the one entirely adamant against spoiling her).

What I saw was both toys set aside at the present, and what I heard was a small, familiar voice.

"You know, once you take away the loudness and the grabbing, I suppose you children creatures aren't _so_ awful, all in all."

I restrained a smile at the poor girl's expression. She looked as if she was attempting to decide if she was in the grips of another fever and seeing things. She was being polite towards the possible hallucination, however, having divided up one of Mrs. Hudson's oatmeal raisin cookies with it.

"Eve, this is Mr. Basil. Yes, darling, I see him, too." Our rodent friend was lucky Eve, after all her experiences, did not scare easily, or he may have found himself the target of a very small boot.


	37. Barber

_AN: This can either be taken as mild slash or merely a very, very tired Dr. Watson; it's up to you._

They had been left in the frigid wilderness by the man they believed to be their witness but was in fact their criminal. They had found their way out, eventually. Holmes had found his way into an exhausted collapse shortly after.

Watson had not yet slept, yet was expected in court soon. Convicting the man who might have done them in took priority over his health to both him and the Yard. The problem was, his hands were paining greatly as they thawed, rendering them useless, and his face bore several days worth of stubble.

"Thank you for doing this." His voice was somewhat bleary, perhaps because of his fatigue, perhaps because of the mild hypothermia. Perhaps because of the thick lather on his face.

"_Still_. This is harder to do on someone else." Nevertheless, Mycroft cupped the doctor's chin, gliding the razor down his jaw.

The doctor closed his eyes, allowing the gentle touch. The fatigue, or perhaps the hypothermia, began to speak for him. "This is wonderful." A pause. "You have remarkably soft hands."

A great sigh. "Doctor, if there is something we need to discuss, I will do so, but can it wait until the steadiness of my hands is not a factor between health and a slit throat?"

Watson closed his mouth, yielding to the makeshift barber.


	38. Banished

_AN: More Eve and Alfie nonsense. These two are just too cute…_

Alfie felt entirely awful.

He hadn't _meant_ to make her cry…! They'd been playing hide and seek in the flat, and she'd taken refuge in one of the mostly empty trunks, living the lid open but throwing a blanket over herself. When he'd seen her, he thought he'd startle her by slamming the lid down.

He hadn't know the thing locked. He certainly didn't know she was afraid of being closed in like that (Eve wouldn't even admit her fear of dogs for stupid pride). It wasn't his fault some nutter used to lock her in a coffin… The doctor had gotten her out, but she had been sobbing…

When she finally emerged, face still damp, he quickly slid out of the chair he had been sulking in. "Look, Oi really din't mean tah…"

Wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand, she nodded, showing her understanding. The movement made plain her marked arm, which only made him feel worse.

"If it 'helps… Never told no soul 'bout it afore, but Oi'm _wicked _scared of most 'eights, and when Mista 'olmes's brotha lifts you, Oi don't know 'ow you aren't scared."

His expression alone pried a silent giggle, and it was clear all hostility had been banished.


	39. Brusquely

_AN: If anyone has any suggestions for either this story or for "PhD", feel free to suggest/request. Then I wouldn't have to resort to things like this._

By outward appearances, he was a perfectly normal seven-year-old. Somewhat curly black hair, light grey eyes that were perhaps a bit intrusive at times, pale skin, full cheeks, a bit of a pudgy build, and often a bit fastidious for a boy his age, but all in all quite ordinary.

He wasn't, of course. Not really. For instance, most new siblings of seven were under the impression that their baby brother was found under a bush or popped up in the cabbage patch or was dropped off by the stork. This boy knew better. It was cold enough out that any baby under a bush would have shown signs of element exposure, they didn't have a cabbage patch, and there would be no storks in the area until well into spring.

In other ways, however, the chubby boy was as normal as they came. For instance, he had not yet figured out how this development was going to affect him.

Mother had left the babe in his cradle while she went off to check on dinner. In her absence, her older son crept in, quietly pulling up a stool and settling his solid frame upon it, staring down.

Replicas of his own eyes stared back.

This discontented him slightly. "I'm going to be watching you," he stated, though not quite brusquely.


	40. School Bag

_AN: 39 through 42 are going to be a four-part series._

Twelve going on forty-five, the haversack of Mycroft Holmes was kept neater than the portfolios of most businessmen. He swung it onto his back, straps loose so that the weight of the thick textbooks would not cause his shoulders to numb, and poked his head into his brother's room.

Sherlock was dawdling. He should have expected that. The boy was fussing with his collar, making it more askew rather than more even.

Mycroft refrained from sighing, entering the room. "Mother and Father were sorry they couldn't be here, but the farming lands require a lot of attention after the drought this year. Most of the renters were here before us. Stop that." He set to adjusting the uniform's neckline.

The boy still had a pout on his face. "I don't know anyone at school!"

"You know me."

"You're in a whole different year!"

"It's a small school. We'll see each other at breaks." He spoke nothing of the fact that he would be gone to boarding school next year. It was not next year yet. "Come on."

Reluctantly, Sherlock put his hand in his elder brother's.

"Nothing's going to happen. I'm going to be watching you."

If Mycroft said it, the boy would have believed the sky was green, and so he followed, grip tight around his very first school bag.


	41. Belgium

"I know it is not my business…"

"So stay out of it!" He did not mean to be so short-tempered, but dying and strong tobacco played havoc on the nerves.

Mycroft was patient and continued. "… but I think I should tell him, Sherlock. He deserves…"

"No." Although hoarse, his voice was definitive.

"His wife is ill, they suspect terminally. Your death might push him into the realm of madness! Do you not care for him at all?"

Another long inhale, another thick cloud of smoke. "I care for him more than my own life, Mycroft, and that is why he cannot know. Think, brother. If I were alive, he would surely know. That is the way my enemies would think."

The rotund man had indeed considered this. "You think he would break?"

"That is irrelevant. Were he tortured in the first place I would have failed Watson as a friend and as a comrade."

Mycroft with his keen eyes could see that his little brother was trembling. He heaved himself from his chair, crossing the room to engulf him in a tight embrace. What was dignity when there was none to define dignity?

"I am proud of you, Sherlock, and I'm going to be watching you every leg of your travels. Your train leaves at six tomorrow morning for Belgium."


	42. Browbeating

"Why did he not tell me?"

Mycroft turned to face the doctor, wordless.

The poor man was rather distraught, and he had the distinct feeling this encounter would not make it onto the pages of the Strand. Dr. John Watson was a man who had lost his dearest friend and his wife in a span of three months, and learning that the former had been hiding his existence from him shook him to his very heart.

"Doctor…"

"I want to know why, Mycroft! Why would he do this to me? Did he not know how much pain it would cause me?" Tears were forming, but the doctor had become an expert at forcing them back down. "Did he not care enough for me…?"

Watson was his brother's only friend, his only link between reality and oblivion. He could not risk its severance. "I ordered him not to tell you." The next thing he saw was stars and the floor; the doctor had hurled one of the shelved texts at him, striking him square in the temple.

"Bastard," spat the former solider, aim still true. "Conniving _rat_!"

Sorrow made demons from kind men; rage needed to be released. _I'm going to be watching you, brother, for a way to seek repayment for this. _For Sherlock, Mycroft tolerated in silence the literal browbeating.


	43. Birds

_AN: I needed to clear the air after two chapters of angst..._

Holmes did not really blame the girl for being nervous. School was an entirely new experience, and to be separated from her guardians (actually, being pried off Mycroft's leg by Watson) was no doubt upsetting. Besides, most children just entering school did not yet read with any fluency; the girl was to be reduced to pictograms again until her peers began their study of letters.

Not far away, a nanny seemed to be having similar difficulties with the Japanese boy, no doubt the son of an ambassador, whose hands gripped her skirts tightly. She was switching between Japanese and English. Surely a boy who knew two languages had been taught their writing as well.

"Here, Eve." He plucked her off his brother, the element of surprise allowed him to pull her away when Watson had failed, and set her before the boy. "Here's a new friend for you. Ma'am, this is Eve."

"Hayato," the nanny smiled, urging the boy forwards. "His name means 'falcon' in our language. I'm sorry, he's very quiet…"

The girl must have sensed a conversation starter, for she reached into her knapsack, pulling out the thick illustrated book of aviary predators from it.

Hayato smiled, and the two wandered off to inspect it.

Mycroft sighed, wishing all international meetings could be resolved with an introduction and birds.


	44. Burst

_AN: Lovingly ripped off of PFG's new fic._

"Holmes, your brother is going to have an aneurism when he comes home."

Mrs. Hudson had not been quite so tolerant of spotted little monsters as they had hoped, forcing them to find alternate accommodations for the night. That, and all one hundred and one of them (Holmes had done a head count before marching them out) needed the soot washed off of them. Mycroft's house had two full baths and a large sink in the guest bathroom.

Finally, his sister-in-law's hormones were working to his advantage. A pregnant woman could not deny the care of any baby of any species.

Ann Marie, spotted herself with generous smudges of soot, dumped three wriggling puppies wrapped up in a towel into Holmes's lap. "You could at least help by drying some of them off. Or feeding them; the maids are off finding dog chow…"

Toby, herding several of the pups, found he approved of his pet's brother's mate. If only she had a fine dog, not that prissy Siamese…

Marco Polo, usually lord of the house, tore into the room with a score of Dalmatians nipping at his tail. Leaping from the chair to the mantle saved him, but the dogs made it no further than the chair which Holmes currently occupied.

Watson repressed laughter while his friend repressed a violent burst.


	45. This Reproduction Business

Perdita had just settled on the sofa in the sitting room after checking on each and every one of the puppies as they drifted into sleep. Pongo lay in the corner, several of the brood around or on top of him.

Ann Marie threaded her way around the dogs, sitting heavily next to the female, hands resting on her swollen stomach. "And I've been worried over just one of them…" she sighed, smiling towards the mother. "You have more strength than me."

There was the sound of a door opening, following by a loud, irate. "Ann…! What in the world…!"

Another sigh as she heaved herself up, Perdy following after her. "Mycroft, I can explain…"

The portly man looked very, very far from amused. "They're everywhere! Where did they come from? They're not staying here, Ann!"

"There's only one hundred and one… Well, one hundred and two counting Toby, he wanted to stay with them. It's only for the night, Mycroft! There's some woman after them, Sherlock didn't know why exactly, but…" Scooping up one of the whimpering pups his shouting had woken, she held it forth. "Think of it as practise! This one even looks a bit like you!"

Staring down the pudgy puppy with the rather unimpressed expression, Mycroft was beginning to have second thoughts on this reproduction business.


	46. Nilhist Butterflies

Eve had been utterly engrossed in her painting for the last two weeks before her first art contest. At the age of eight, she had concentration far beyond her age and when she used it, the effects of it were reminiscent of a certain detective. Watson fretted; she should not be competing so young. Mycroft fussed; she was missing meals and her schoolwork bore paint smudges. Holmes lost beakers, commandeered as water dishes.

All could not be prouder.

Her skills surprised the general public, such talent for such a young girl, but her protectors knew this. What did surprise them was the sole abstract piece among the classic oils and watercolours.

It had been painted at 221b. Eve had coated the entire canvas cerulean blue in anticipation of a conch shell seen under the rippling waves. Alfie, in a mood because he was being ignored for paintbrushes, had sat rather forcefully on her tube of orange.

Nearly an hour passed between the arguing and the fighting, Eve fighting Alfie because he had ruined her last canvas and Alfie fighting Eve because she was stifling his creativity. Once they finally ran out of steam, the paint had dried.

Upon turning it upside down, they both found they rather liked it. They both signed it as a collaboration and entitled it "Nihilist Butterflies".


	47. Benefit

_AN: I couldn't help myself, I had to write this couple again… Fluff forewarned. _

Mrs. Hudson sighed as she heard the rustling of papers and the slamming of drawers, knowing that the meal she had just put so much effort into was going to be turned away. All the same, she entered 221b, optimism being prevalent.

Sherlock Holmes spared a moment to glare up moodily from the disarray that was his desk. "You shouldn't have bothered," he muttered, perhaps a twinge of guilt within him but not enough to even sample the meal. "Watson won't return from his conference until tomorrow."

"Are you sure, Mr. Holmes?" He really did need to sustain himself, and she doubted the nutritional value of a diet of coffee and tobacco very greatly.

"Quite, yes. Bring up another pot of coffee in an hour if you wish." With that she was banished from his attention, abandoned for yet another horrible crime.

Sighing, she carted the tray back downstairs. Impossible man; he'd get scurry one day or she knew nothing of cooking at all.

"You only came because you knew he was working on a case," she scolded the only visitor she received in secrecy, the two of them agreeing it for the best at the moment.

Mycroft Holmes emerged from her sitting room, kissing her before reliving her of the tray. "No sense wasting it. Sherlock's loss is my benefit."


	48. Bear

_AN: A Christmas scene set between "What Words Fail Of" and "A Drop in the Ocean"._

It had been the first snow where she did not need to fear dying of the elements, and as such Mycroft had taken her to the park while it was still falling, before the city grime could turn the white grey, allowing her to romp about until he had carried her home, spent entirely.

Now she shivered under layers of blankets on the sofa, a cough creeping in. He should've known better; her last illness had left her susceptible to further troubles, and at the moment her fever and soft wheeze were causing him guilt.

Her guardians had made plans for a ballet performance, dinner at a gourmet restaurant… A perfect first Christmas Eve for their Eve. Now it was an evening of hot water with lemon, a pile of blankets, and a story in lieu of a live performance.

"Poor little thing," Mycroft sliced off a piece of the plum pudding meant for tomorrow's lunch. The girl needed some comfort. "Her first Christmas spent ill."

Watson, jotting down her temperature for future reference, glanced out into the sitting room. The girl was settled quite comfortably against Holmes, who was in the middle of an animated retelling of the case of a certain massive rat, contentedly munching on her pasta and cheese. "Oh, I don't think it's too much to bear."


	49. Bastard

_AN: There actually is a very good wine by the name of that listed below, though of course it wasn't available to the Victorian public, and it did indeed draw its name from the reason mentioned below._

I gritted my teeth hard enough to feel them grind together. "Holmes, would you care to explain why every branch of the government is out to get the pair of us today?"

I was not exaggerating; our gas and water were cut off (though oddly enough, Mrs. Hudson's seemed to work quite fine; I was not aware pipes could function like that), Holmes had received a pile of paperwork for tax purposes, and we had been informed safety inspectors were going to be visiting randomly to make sure our ventilation was up to code. I doubted it was.

There was one person with that command of the government who would trouble us. "You did buy your brother something proper for Christmas, didn't you?"

Holmes looked outright insulted. "Of course! I bought him snuff and a very good bottle of wine the clerk recommended for someone matching Mycroft's tastes." He paused, thin finger to his thinner lips, withholding a smirk. "Though he may have taken offence at the name of it…"

"For the love of God, Holmes!"

"It's hardly my fault someone saw fit to name it that! The clerk said it was named for its full-bodied aroma and taste…"

I felt like the middle sibling. "What exactly was the name, Holmes?"

The immature grin finally floated to the surface. "Fat Bastard."


	50. Born

_AN: A little piece in honour of The Master's supposed birthday._

Sigerson Holmes was a father a second time, and yet already he worried for his new son.

His wife had been against having another after Mycroft had turned out so… abnormal, but upon holding the newborn for the first time, love had been in her eyes. She was resting now; it had been a short but hard labour.

The trouble had been the rug.; it was not in an overly convenient place, but it had not caused anyone in the house trouble before. Miss Angus was a capable nanny, but she would admit that she'd been distracted staring at the little face in the basket on her way down to place the premature babe near the kitchen stove for warmth. New brother Mycroft had been at the bottom of the stairs sulking through a geology book.

It had all happened so fast; Angus had tripped over the cursed rug, the stiff basket had gone tumbling, blessedly remained upright. Mycroft had turned at the sound of the horrified scream in time to cushion the baby's landing, largely with his face.

Little Sherlock slept in Father's arms through the crying and curses of fraternal hate while his brother had his nose set by the doctor who had just delivered his assailant.

Sigerson sighed, gazing down. "Not good start for having just being born."


	51. Bliss

The screaming had stopped some time ago, but there had been such commotion about the house that Marco Polo had taken his time in venturing from the closet. The humans were surprised that there had been two kits, but they really could have just asked him; he'd spent enough time with his head on the mistress's belly to pick out the two heartbeats.

He finally crept out, hungry but not going to his bowls first. He went instead to the guest room, where they had taken his mistress. She and the master were there with the kits between them.

When the master saw him he scowled, rising to shoo him out before mistress placed a hand on her arm.

"Ann, that thing isn't getting near…"

"He'll be fine with them, Mycroft. Come here, Marco. Meet Myke and Aesara."

The Siamese leapt onto the bed with ease, coming closer, weaselling his way in between the bundles of cloth that contained the kits. He glared at first, not forgetting the trouble they had caused their dam in the womb, but after giving an experimental sniff, they smelt decidedly like his mistress.

"Suppose that means I can't hate you," he sighed, rubbing against one with a reluctant purr, noting the blonde woman's broad smile at the action. "Not if you bring them this bliss."


	52. Blight

"So, tomorrow you get gaped at inside and out by a glorified magnet," Sherlock Holmes commented as he turned the glossy black box over in his hands. "What did you say this way again?"

"A very expensive external hard drive." The author shook out the allotment of pills.

"You know it won't hurt. Unless you have metal in you that you weren't aware of. Then it will be terrible, I imagine." Watson had always been better at bedside manner.

She sighed. "It's just that on every single episode of House, something always goes wrong in the MRI. Always. They take a seizure or they find something awful unrelated to the original problem or they bleed from somewhere disgusting." She began swallowing the assortment. The notion of an E-Z swallow capsule was fictional.

"You'd think living with a painful condition that will likely lead to the slow grinding away of your joints would leave you immune to most other worries." Holmes picked up what appeared to be a cell phone, prodding numbers. There was nothing to her room but medical paraphernalia, technology, and books.

"In ten years I will have no knees left. Then I get titanium joints. They will be awesome. Also they will probably let me get WiFi in my head by that time."

Optimism certainly was a kind blight.


End file.
